Loamhedge: A Novel of Redwall

by Brian Jacques

  Stugg gestured airily. “Stuck inna moon I appose, eh Lonn?”

  A rare smile creased the badger’s scarred face. “Aye, I suppose so, mate. Let’s try for distance next.”

  The second arrow he laid flat against his jaw, squinting one eye and holding the bow straight.

  Zzzzip! Out across the stream over marsh and scrubland it flew, until it was lost on the seaward horizon.

  Abruc clapped his paws in delight. “Speared a big fish I bet, eh Stugg?”

  The young otter smirked. “Prolably two, anna big crab!”

  Lonna scanned the countryside. “I need a target now.” He bowed to Abruc’s wife, Marinu. “Lady, would you like to choose one? Anything will do.”

  She looked around, then pointed. “There’s a piece of driftwood just beyond the marsh, see? To the right of that rivulet which runs out onto the shore. I don’t know if you can reach that far, Lonna. Shall I pick something a little closer? I’m afraid I don’t know much about firing arr . . . !”

  Her words were cut short as the chunk of driftwood went end over end, pierced through by the badger’s arrow. A rousing cheer went up from the spectators.

  Lonna unstrung his bow, passing it to Stugg. “Well, mate, it looks like we made a proper bow. Thank you for all your help.”

  The young otter nodded. “Searats better watch out now!”

  Lonna took supper in the sea otters’ main cave that night—a large seafood pie, followed by a preserved plum crumble, washed down with beakers of last summer’s best cider. He sat by the fire with Abruc and Shoredog, with Stugg dozing on his lap.

  Old Sork made Lonna hold still whilst she inspected his facial scar. “A luckybeast is what ye are. ’Tis healin’ better’n I hoped. So what are ye lookin’ so miserable about, eh?”

  The big badger shrugged. “Every day that I sit here, Raga Bol and his crew get further away. Soon there’ll be no trace of them to follow.”

  Abruc refilled his beaker with cider. “Never fear, Lonna. A Searat like Raga Bol always leaves a trail, a path of murder an’ destruction that anybeast with half an eye could follow. I’ve been watchin’ ye since you’ve been up an’ about. I know yore impatient to begone from here. Well, summer’s almost in, the time’ll soon be ripe.”

  Lonna stared into the flames as he replied. “Raga Bol and his crew won’t live to see the leaves turn gold this autumn. I leave tomorrow!”

  Shoredog helped himself to more cider, peering curiously at the big badger. “Then we’ll go with ye, Lonna, us an’ a dozen of our best fighters. Even a warrior as big as yoreself will need help with Bol an’ his crew!”

  The badger shook his huge scarred head. “I’m grateful, friend, but this is a thing I must do alone. You stay here and care for your families. There will be a hard time ahead for me. Raga Bol knows I am coming.”

  Abruc replenished the fire with driftwood and sea coal. “He probably thinks yore dead, mate. How could he know yore comin’ after him?”

  Lonna never took his eyes from the flames as he explained. “I never knew my mother and father. Grawn, the wise old badger you buried, was the one who reared me. Not only did he teach me all the skills of a bowbeast but also many other things. When I was very small, Grawn told me that I was gifted with something few other badgers possess. He said that I was born with the power of a Seer. Old Grawn used to question me a lot. One day he said to me, ‘You have the keenest eyes of any bowbeast I have known, but you also have another eye, inside your mind. You can see things the rest of us cannot, strange things that will shape your destiny.’ It has always been so with me. Even when I was lying wounded in the cave, I could see Raga Bol. I can stare into this fire and see his face. Believe me, he knows I am coming. I want him to know, to fear me. He is evil and must die!”

  Shoredog felt the fur on the nape of his neck begin to prickle. “But if yore a Seer, ye must have known Grawn was goin’ t’die, didn’t ye?”

  Lonna’s eyes left the flames momentarily. “Aye, I knew the old beast had not long to go, but I didn’t know the manner of his death. Grawn was old and very ill. He wished to end his days at the badger mountain of Salamandastron. I was taking him there, and I knew my own fate was also linked to the mountain.”

  Abruc leaned forward. “Do ye know where this mountain is?”

  Lonna turned back to contemplating the fire. “I have never been there, but I feel I am guided to it by my mind’s eye. It is far to the west, on the shores of the great sea. When my business with the Searats is done, that is where I’ll go. I will not return to this place again. That is why I must travel alone.”

  As they sat silently by the fire, Marinu came and lifted the sleeping Stugg from Lonna’s lap. All the other otters had retired for the night. Only the three of them—Lonna, Abruc, and Shoredog—remained.

  Shoredog broke the silence. “Garfo Trok, he’s the answer!”

  Abruc nodded vigorously. “Right, mate, good ole Garfo!”

  Lonna stared from one to the other. “What are you talking about—who’s Garfo Trok?”

  Shoredog rose and picked up his warm cape. “Skipper o’ the Nor’east Riverdogs, that’s who Garfo is. He runs a riverboat. Garfo will take ye westward along the waterways. That should save time an’ strain on that back o’ yores, Lonna. Ye’ll pick up Raga Bol’s trail in half the time ye’d take limpin’ along step by step.”

  Shoredog hurried from the holt, calling back to Abruc. “I’ll be back with Garfo by midday. Tell the cooks to pack plenty o’ vittles, especially nutbread!”

  Abruc nudged Lonna cheerfully. “Ye’ll like ole Garfo, that otter knows waterways like the back of ’is rudder.”

  Happy but puzzled, Lonna smiled at the sea otter. “I’m sure I will, but what’s all this about vittles and nutbread? I eat only lightly when I’m travelling.”

  Abruc stood up and stretched. “Ye may do, Lonna, but Garfo Trok ain’t a beast that’s ever stinted ’isself when it comes to vittles, particularly nutbread. Why, that ole dog’d go to Hellgates for a loaf! Now get yoreself off an’ rest, ye’ve a big day tomorrow!”

  After Abruc had gone, Lonna stretched out by the fire, intending to sleep there for the remainder of the night. Before he closed his eyes, he spent several minutes intensely concentrating on the red embers, repeating mentally, “Rest not too deeply, Raga Bol! Know that I am coming for you! As surely as night follows day, I am coming!”

  Raga Bol and his crew were sleeping. They had made it out of the hills and moorlands into the first fringes of heavy forest. A spark from the campfire touched Ferron’s nose, startling him awake. The gaunt rat sat bolt upright, rubbing at the stinging spot. He saw Raga Bol sit up as well, waving his silver hook and mumbling as he tried to come fully awake.

  “Go ’way, yore dead! Get away from me, d’ye hear?” The Searat captain caught Ferron looking strangely at him across the fire. “Who are ye gawpin’ at, long face, eh?”

  Ferron knew better than to answer back. Instead, he lay back down and closed his eyes. All the crew had been saying the same thing. Lately Cap’n Bol was acting very strange.

  9

  Dawn was only moments old, but Redwall Abbey was awake and buzzing. Today was the special day Abbot Carrul had promised. Breakfast was already being served from a large buffet table, set up in the passage outside the kitchens. With laden platters, the Redwallers sat down to eat at anyplace which took their fancy. Horty and his friends looked out from the dormitory window at the scene below. Dibbuns thronged together on the broad front step of the Abbey, spooning down bowls of oatmeal mixed with honey and fruit. Anybeast wanting to dine outside had to step carefully over them to reach the lawns or the orchard. It was a jumble of happy confusion.

  Muggum waved his beaker at the passing elders, who tip-pawed around him. “Yurr, moind ee paws, you’m nearly trodded in this choild’s brekkist. Whurr’s ee manners? Hurr!”

  Warm sunlight was rapidly dispersing the mist into a golden haze. Fenna the squirrelmaid leaned out over the dormitory si
ll and dropped a fragment of scone down into the hood of Sister Setiva’s habit, giggling as she drew back inside.

  “Did she notice it?”

  Horty reassured her. “Not at all. She’s toddled off down to the pond with Brother Gelf. Hahaha! I expect old Setiva’ll be set upon by the first blinkin’ bird that spots it. Should liven her up, wot!”

  Springald watched the Infirmary Sister balancing her tray gingerly as she crossed the lawn. “Huh, pity help the bird who tries to set upon her. She’ll bath it in the pond and physick it silly. Look out, here comes Father Abbot!”

  The mischievous trio ducked below the windowsill as Abbot Carrul, Toran, Sister Portula and Martha emerged from the Abbey. Toran lifted Martha’s chair over the step and assisted Portula with a trolley full of food. They set out for the gatehouse together, with Abbot Carrul stretching his paws and breathing deeply.

  “My my, it’s a good-to-be-alive day. Let’s hope we get a few hours of peace to tackle our studies.”

  Toran had to rap loudly on the gatehouse door to gain attention. Old Phredd could be heard inside, arguing with an armchair.

  “Come out my way and let me see who ’tis. It’s your fault, being so comfy and allowin’ me to sleep like that!”

  A moment later, his frowzy, prickled head poked around the door. “Oh, er hmm. Good morning, I suppose it’s morning, isn’t it? Of course, if ’twas noon, the sun would be much higher, eh, eh?” Dabbing his face in a bowl of water, the ancient hedgehog absentmindedly wiped his eyes on Martha’s lap rug. “There, that’s better. Oh good, I see you brought breakfast with you. Splendid, I’m starving!”

  Martha ate very little, trying to hold back her impatience as Phredd slowly munched his way around the food. Toran, however, got to the point right away.

  “Well then, sir, how did yore studyin’ go? Did ye find out anythin’ useful about Loamhedge?”

  Phredd nodded toward a dusty book lying on his bed. “Oh, that. Take a look in the old volume there. I read it until I could keep my eyes open no longer. Hmm, quite interesting really, an exciting little story, eh?”

  Martha opened the book, its pages yellow with age and so brittle that they were cracking and beginning to flake. She read aloud from the neatly scribed lines of purple, faded ink. “Written by Tim Churchmouse. Recorder of Redwall Abbey in Mossflower country . . .”*

  Phredd interrupted her as he dealt with a hazelnut roll. “It was written in the seasons of Abbot Mordalphus. The account of Mattimeo, son of Matthias the Abbey Champion. All about abduction and slavery, a search, a chase and so on. If you’re looking for a route to the old Abbey of Loamhedge, the descriptions are very long and complicated, but there’s a map included that should be a help. Actually I only got a third of the way through the account before I dropped off. . . .”

  Abbot Carrul shook his head in wonder. “In the seasons of Mordalphus, . . . Dearie me! That book must be nearly as old as time itself!”

  Sister Portula put aside her beaker of mint tea. “The land will have changed a lot since then, what with rains and floods altering water courses and storms blowing down trees. There’ll be new areas of woodland grown over the ages, and I don’t know what. Do you think it will be much help, Toran?”

  As she had been speaking, the noise of stamping paws and singing voices had been swelling outside.

  Toran went to the door. “Who knows, Sister? Great Seasons, what’s all that rackety din about?”

  Old Phredd chuckled. “They’re singing the Summer Feast song. What a happy sound! Let’s go out and watch, eh, eh?”

  Martha was less than enthusiastic, since she wanted to continue studying the book. But the Abbot patted her paw encouragingly. “You know, we can study the problem at our leisure, but next summer’s first day is a long time away. They sound so joyful and excited! Come on, young ’un, let’s go and see.”

  Smilingly, the haremaid relented.

  Up and down the wallsteps and all over the lawns, Redwallers, led by Horty, were joining paws and skipping about, singing lustily to the jolly tune.

  “The sun could not shine brighter

  upon this summer’s day,

  my heart could not be lighter.

  I’ve heard our Abbot say

  there’ll be a feast this evening,

  so listen one and all:

  This afternoon we’ll run a race

  around the Abbey wall!

  Come form up in a line, pals,

  and listen for your names,

  it’s ready steady set and go,

  for Redwall Abbey games!

  There’s vittles in the kitchen,

  good ale and cordials, too,

  fine singers and musicians,

  to play the evening through.

  But first I’ll gird my robe up,

  so I don’t trip or fall.

  I’m going to be the first around

  that high old Abbey wall!

  Come form up in a line, pals,

  and listen for your names,

  it’s ready steady set and go,

  for Redwall Abbey games!”

  Martha could not resist the merry cavalcade. Clapping her paws in time to the lively song, she laughed happily. Sister Portula, whooping like a wildbeast, grabbed Martha’s chair and dashed off into the throng.

  Abbot Carrul winked at Phredd. “My mistake for starting all this, but who could sit indoors studying on such a wonderful day?”

  Toran, in complete agreement, shepherded both of his friends out of the way of the dancers. “You two stay here. I’ll go an’ bring two armchairs an’ the rest o’ the food out of the gatehouse. Ye can sit back an’ watch the whole thing in comfort. We can always look through dusty ole books tomorrow.”

  Old Phredd spoke to a buttercup growing by the wall. “Heehee, now there’s a sensible young creature. Beasts like that make a body enjoy his old age, eh, eh?”

  Bragoon and Saro stood outside the main gate. Memories flooded back as they touched the stout oak timbers.

  The aging squirrel looked misty-eyed. “Dear ole Redwall Abbey! Sounds like they’re havin’ a good time in there, mate. Well, do we knock for the Gatekeeper?”

  Bragoon scuffed the gravel path with his rudder as he pondered the question. “Hmm, we’ve been a long time gone. Suppose nobeast knows us anymore. Or worse, supposin’ they do recognise us an’ recall wot a pair of scoundrels we were! They might not want us back. Wot d’ye think?”

  Saro gnawed at her lip. “Aye, I think yore right, Brag. Tell ye what, let’s just slip in unnoticed an’ sort of mingle with the crowd. That way we can judge the lay o’ the land.”

  The otter grinned furtively at his companion. “The way we used to come an’ go, through the ole east wall gate. I’ll bet ye can still open it.”

  Saro clapped his back with her bushy tail. “Great idea! Come on, let’s give it a try. We’ll disguise ourselves up a bit so as not to cause too much of a stir!”

  Brother Weld, an old bankvole who was Abbey Beekeeper, perched on the arm of Abbot Carrul’s chair to watch the fun. Some of the other games were in progress, and competition among the Dibbuns was fierce.

  The Abbot watched them fondly as he reminisced. “I was pretty good at the nut and spoon race in my younger seasons.”

  Weld kept his eyes on the games as he observed drily, “Aye, Father, you beat me three seasons on the run. Then they caught you sticking your nut to the spoon with honey.”

  Abbot Carrul cautioned him. “Not so loud, Weld, keep your voice down. We can’t have the young ’uns discovering that a Dibbun who cheated at nut and spoon is now their Abbot!”

  Three of the Dibbuns—Muggum, Shilly and Yooch—were trying madly to win the greasy pole event. A big bag of candied chestnuts hung from the top of the pole. It resisted all their efforts. Each time, they ended up skimming dismally down to earth, caked with a mixture of soap and vegetable oil. After some earnest plotting, they hatched up a joint plan. Muggum stood tippaw, grasping the base of the pole. Yooch
scrambled up the molebabe’s back and stood on his head. Both clung tightly to the pole, then Shilly climbed up over them onto Yooch’s head. Holding the pole with one paw, the squirrelbabe strove with her free paw to reach the bag. Unfortunately, the combined height of all three Dibbuns was still short of the prize. Muggum could not look up, his tiny face squinched by the weight of his two pals. But that did not stop him yelling out words of encouragement.

  “Gurr, goo on Shilly, grab ee chesknutters naow!”

  Shilly roared back at him. “I carn’t not gerrem, me paw bee’s too likkle’n’short!”

  Yooch the molebabe grunted his contribution. “Moi pore bee’s flattinged, ’urry up!”

  Amid the spectators’ shouts of support and hoots of laughter at the spectacle, Fenna came bounding out. The squirrelmaid hopped up the backs of all three Dibbuns. Launching herself from the top of Shilly’s head, she made a graceful leap. Fenna effortlessly unhooked the bag of candied chestnuts. Performing a spectacular somersault, she landed neatly on the ground, without a speck of grease anywhere on her.

  She smiled smugly. “No trouble at all, the prize is mine!”

  Martha’s voice cut across her jubilant cries. “Not fair! It’s the greasy pole you’re supposed to climb, not the greasy Dibbuns. You should forefeit the nuts, Fenna!”

  Fenna stuck her lip out and pouted. “But I won them!”

  The Abbot left his armchair and took possession of the bag. “The object is to get the nuts. There’s no hard-and-fast rule about climbing greasy poles. But be fair, Fenna. The little ones tried so hard, and they gave us all such fun. I suggest we split the nuts four ways betwixt you and them.”

  Whilst everybeast was applauding the decision, Toran caught Shilly and Yooch as they fell backwards from the pole. Horty was left with the task of unsticking Muggum, who was practically plastered to the pole with grease. He tugged his snout politely to the young hare.